


Don't leave me howling

by Wineabout



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banter, But very mild and Peter's super clear about accepting a no, College Student Stiles, Handfeeding, Hurt/Comfort, Ignored Safeword, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Safeword Use, Spit As Lube, Stiles is a brat, Sub Stiles Stilinski, There will be fluff, Under-negotiated Kink, but not between Peter and Stiles, mild humiliation play, mild... spit kink? sort of not really, mutual handjobs, see end note for more details, unwitting sugardaddy!Peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wineabout/pseuds/Wineabout
Summary: Peter's anonymous night out takes a turn when it's Stiles he finds in the dark.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 78
Kudos: 325
Collections: Secret Steter BFFs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CinnamonLily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnamonLily/gifts).



> CinnamonLily, I hope you enjoy this and I hope it ticks some of ya boxes. 
> 
> Everyone else I hope you like this too!
> 
> See end notes of each chapter for brief summary of content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for chapter summary and warnings. Thanks for reading!

There’s an ache in Peter’s lungs when he shoves the man that’s pressing him into a grimy cement wall back a few steps. The shotgunned smoke billowing between them before he pants, just twice, and feels rough hands pushing his hips back hard, jostling his skull enough that he grunts. The man in front of him is inhaling deep, it hollows his gaunt cheeks and Peter thinks his lips are too dry when they press against his own again. 

Beside them, a few feet, a creaking metal door swings on its hinges, an inebriated pair of men stumbling out together with curses for the cold weather. The smaller of the two whines, and his shirt’s got a rip in the belly of it, his jeans are barely on. Peter stares at them, at the way his companion is trying to get a jacket on him, and the way their hands roam.

A flashback of heat and harshness forces Peter’s eyes closed as his lungs start to burn from the pressure of keeping the smoke too long. He blows out when the warm borrowed body is stepping away from him. Cold air rushes into the space between Peter and his stranger. Into his chest. The man stubs whatever it was he felt like sharing under his boot on the shoveled off sidewalk. The embers smear into a crack and melt a bit of the trapped ice that fills it. 

“Shit,” the man says when he’s swaying a bit and staring down at a phone that casts his face with strange shadows. “I gotta go.” There’s no apology in it, but he does give Peter a blearly look before he thumps a hand in the middle of his chest in parting and starts walking off. Even with the substances his shoulders square before he stumbles; a little Hunter tell that’s as clear as the wolfsbane and hemlock soaked into his hands.

Peter watches him go before he tilts his head back up and looks at the way the moon hangs in the sky. Pale and unfriendly without the decency to wax or wane. It’s a clear night; the cold of a New York January settles under his skin despite the supernatural heat of his blood. 

There were a lot of places he could have gone - all of them better than this one. The club Peter shrugs his way back into isn’t really a club, more of a bar but even that feels generous. It’s shit. It’s shady. A supernatural hole in the ground that’s as faceless as it is timeless. 

There’s spilt booze on the floor that’s not going to get mopped up except by the denim of a few knees.The music is ambient but loud and voiceless. The lighting leaves more to the imagination than the eye and men bump into Peter when he walks back to the bar to slap bills down in an attempt to drink more than his body can handle all at once. 

An elbow catches him in the kidney when he moves across the uneven dancefloor; someone grunts something at him about watching where he’s fucking walking. Peter’s fangs flash but the crowd around him don’t care for the display. Someone puts their tongue in his mouth. 

Usually, when he wants the thrill of a pretty boy barely clad in leather or the whip crack of a stranger, he’d seek out somewhere more reputable. Which would, perhaps, be almost anywhere. Those places seize devices at the door, they have locker rooms, and security that’s there for more than damage control and tossing out people before they vomit somewhere hard to clean. 

He’s got quiet charges to his visa monthly and NDAs with his signature at places that had all the etiquette of legitimate business. There’s no reason to be smiling among dangerous men who offer him dangerous things except that he wants to. 

He wants every inch of sweat and sin this place can offer; wants the sharp bite of bad decisions to ease the numbing of anniversaries and graveyards.

Something like a strobe light flickers blue and purple across anonymous faces, pulsating to the grind of music Peter feels in the pressure of bodies against his. He nearly kicks a bootlicker in the face, clipping a startled chin, and he grunts before turning the Fae boy and his sharp toothed giggling away from himself. The floor is too crowded, half the sweat on his body isn’t even his own by the time he breaks away to the back of the room. 

It doesn’t smell any less like sex outside of the crowd and Peter’s gaze feels unfocused when he skips around for something, anything, to hold his attention. There’s a buzzing in his mouth and cotton in his sinuses; senses dulled out. Instincts at a crawl. 

At the back there’s tables and Peter thinks about stripping, his skin too hot, he thinks about dumping his clothes on the floor and growling until someone feels like bringing an Alpha to heel. Places like this, there would be someone willing to put their fingers in the belly of the beast. 

His own fingers drop to his jeans, struggling with the top button before someone offers to help. A thick man. Thick beard. Green eyes. It’s the eyes that make Peter stop, make him shrug away from the idea of being seen. 

Having a crisis wasn’t fun if he had to wake up tomorrow remembering what they looked like - or how they looked at  _ him _ . The dark room with security kicking around out front of it offers a neat solution at the end of a hallway that’s decreasingly lit. 

Peter has to turn sideways to pass by a pair of vampires pinning each other against the walls. They smell like rust and they chill the air around them enough that the heat off his own body feels whisked away and his sweat is colder when he pushes into a nearly black room with poorly tacked and faded out blue fairy lights acting like floor runners. 

Anticipation pools when he exhales heavily and listens to the obtuse noises of fucking in the dark. He can get what he wants here so he finds a bit of wall and leans against it, his shoes casting a disturbance to the blue glow on the floor. Just enough to identify him as a person, as taking up space. Vaguely, because his thoughts feel sluggish, he applauds the idea. 

When he was young, when he found places like this out of rebellion and invincibility, he can recall being tripped over by diurnal humans. 

Peter drags his hands up his own thin t-shirt, it’s black, and it clings like wet cotton does. The music and voices are muted in here but it still thumps and hums as a background to the slick sounds of people Peter can’t see. Well, he could, but that’s not the point. His eyes stay dim, they close even, as he sags on the wall and grinds his palm down against his own dick. 

The door opens and closes twice, once for a pair and once a single set of shoes that Peter purrs to attract. He’s got his hands around skinny shoulders quickly, sucking a spit damp mouth that tastes like booze and blood and seawater. 

He doesn’t hear much for a while after that, his new stranger grinds against him and Peter sucks salt from a corded throat while a clammy hand finds his cock. The sound of the ocean or his pulse in his ears - it’s impossible to tell and it doesn’t matter. 

Really, he’s about to get exactly what he wanted all night; there are blunt teeth chewing on the back of his shoulder and hard hips pressed to his ass, he shouldn’t be distracted by the hitch of breath from the couple beside him. The sudden and sharp uptick in a heartbeat, mumbles, sharp whispering that tapers into a coaxing noise. 

Cold hands cup his balls and Peter groans in counterpoint to the shivery sound of distress beside him. Footsteps, but just one set, and Peter blinks in the dark at the irritating damper on his pleasure seeking. 

The thing about intoxicating himself is that no matter how much he blunts his sense of smell he can’t stop himself from placing the scents. Every memory he has is soaked in scent; it bothers him that the one beside him is familiar. He chases the bitter woods smell in his mind, the memories elusive and slippery, but there. 

There’s a sound like choking and Peter frowns at the single pair of shoes, they move, shift restlessly and the heartbeat keeps crawling higher. The laces aren’t tied. Peter doesn’t want to notice but he does. 

The laces aren’t tied and nobody’s coming back for this boy, Peter looks to the dark door and watches as the shoes take a single step towards it before they back up until his heels are nearly on the wall. 

“Rich?” a cracked whisper in a naggingly familiar voice. “Please, I-” The voice sounds pitched and there’s a soft slur to it. “Red. Please. Red. Take me home.” 

The cold hand on his cock tightens enough Peter rises on his toes before he reaches down and peels himself away from the ocean salted body. He pushes the hands away from him and hears the strange questioning purr of a selkie before two fingers tap his cheek lightly, before they draw down and chuck gently underneath it in a way that startles Peter into flashing his teeth and feeling a great deal of regret as he steps to the side to where the abandoned man is breathing faster. 

Peter knows when something isn’t his business, and there’s no one on Earth that would accuse him of being a soft heart, but maybe he feels an essence of his youth in the kid. And he is a kid, he must be, the way he smells. A tangle of booze and panic, of tainted health and a doozy of naturally acquired chemicals that must have him reeling. 

Closer to him, the scent is even more familiar but it’s like grasping at fog trying to place it, so Peter doesn’t. He grabs him by what he guesses is an arm, fingers sliding up to an elbow and the boy yelps loud enough that other people in the room startle and complain. 

“Who? Rich, please,” he babbles and Peter feels bad for him, sort of. He feels something that’s tamping down on his high. 

Dragging him out of the room isn’t hard, not when he uses a bit of werewolf and the boy is a fragile tangle of human stumbling. The light of the hall, dim but enough to see by, makes the boy’s chest rattle on a huge breath. 

“Fuck,” he declares, eyes bleary and tracking around before they settle on Peter’s face and they both swear. “Peter? What the fuck?” 

The thing about the past is that it sneaks up on you like the absolute bitch it is. Peter grimaces and rubs his hands down his face, catching at his kept goatee before he gives the kid a bleary shake of his head. “Stiles,” he says with a disparaging glance over him. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes, it’s too wet, and he’s swallowing some pre-hyperventilation drool. There’s sweat on his face that he’s wiping at with his hands, groaning into his palms, fingers pressing under his eyes as he bounces on his toes. 

“Stiles?” Peter prompts and uses two fingers to nudge at the scraggly looking twink fishnet shirt he’s wearing. The material sways before it gets stuck to his skinny sides. “Oh-” There’s a tick of sobriety that allows him to recognize what he’s seeing; an inebriated sub post safeword and abandonment. 

Now Stiles is looking around, eyes glazed, lips trembling worse than his hands which are gripping into his shirt. Fingers getting stuck between the netting and he scrambles to free himself like he’s startled by it. 

It’s just pathetic enough that Peter reaches for him again, sweaty palm cupping under Stiles’ jaw, thumb going firm around the bone. He’s so much more angular than the vague memory of clumsy scruff Peter holds of him. 

“Come on,” Peter says and Stiles is shaking his head and his eyes are still flickering around as if he’s going to find a better way out. His skinny fingers rake at Peter when he grabs him by the back of the neck to push him along down the hall. 

“I’m not - What the hell Peter. Peter,” Stiles squawks in a voice not quite recovered from panic and he’s almost writhing in the way he tries to squirm away. “Where’s Rich?” 

“Wouldn’t know,” Peter says dully, and he blinks at the transition from the dim hallway to the bright flickering of the dancefloor that he’s mapping out a route around. He should just let go, should just let them both melt back into their respective disasters but- he doesn’t. His grip gets tighter on the back of Stiles’ slick neck and he hauls him a bit closer to his side. 

It’s been years since he moved to New York, abandoned Beacon Hills to Hell and found himself a productive way to live again. Mostly productive. “Stop it,” Peter snaps at Stiles when a sharp elbow clips him the ribs. 

“I can’t leave,” Stiles tells him, he’s sweating worse now, trembling and a little wild. “He’s my boyfriend.” 

The lie is so blatant that Peter pauses to blink then squint. There’s a pulse behind his eyes that’s making it hard to watch Stiles’ face under the flashing blue of the strobe. He’s so pale he glows. 

“Guess he shouldn’t have left you alone,” Peter’s fingers tighten a fraction and he keeps herding Stiles around the dance floor, closer to the door. “You need some air.” 

No one gives them much of a look as Stiles fights him out the door. No one looks when he has to grab Stiles around the middle of his body and push him against the wall of the building to keep him in place. 

They stare at each other for a few heaving breaths; equally sweaty, glassy eyed, breath like lighter fluid and shared spit. 

Stiles shivers, his skin raises in ineffective bumps and his chin drops to his chest as a helpless noise vibrates behind his pursed lips. Up close, under the streetlight, there’s bruises under his eyes and down his throat. 

“Big city chewing you up, sweetheart?” Peter asks and his voice is soft and slow as he thumbs over the aggressive hickies and then catches the paltry collar of his shirt to pluck it away from his skin. “Come.” 

They stumble down the sidewalk together to the connection of a bigger street and Peter curls his body around Stiles’ back to keep him warm while they flag a cab down. Stiles doesn’t speak, he mumbles a few sad syllables at a time, but apparently he doesn’t have words wherever he’s gone in his head. His fingers shake when they grasp where Peter’s hand sits on his leg but he isn’t trying to tug away anymore. 

The cab smells like smoke and urine - old take out and a thousand people. Peter breathes through his mouth and lets it be an excuse to pull Stiles closer, across his chest, hair under his nose, when the boy starts to slump a little too deeply into the window. Stiles goes easy, too pliant for a long moment before he turns his cold nose into Peter’s throat and mumbles some more nonsense. 

\---

The transition of the cityscape goes by in a blur until Peter is paying their driver and dragging Stiles out of the cab and towards the lobby of his condo building. Central Park West. More money than it was worth but so was Peter so he hadn’t felt bad about it. 

The building is much nicer than the sorry state of either of them, and Peter scans in through the locked door and hauls Stiles to the elevator with an arm around his waist. A security guard gives them a bit of a side eye but doesn’t comment. It’s not as if it’s the first time anyone’s dragged a drunk twink through the lobby. 

“So this is,” Stiles splays a floppy hand around at the last glimpse of the lobby. He shifts out of Peter’s side to lean on the elevator wall, looking around before his head thunks back on the paneling and he stares up at Peter from his slouch. “Nice? You live somewhere nice.” 

Peter’s mouth quirks enough to make his nod friendly as they travel upward. The penthouse lights flicker on low as soon as they step off the lift. Stiles coos and his mouth works around thoughts that must be too fast for him to articulate. 

“Cool,” he settles on. Eyes big and drooping as he stumbles into the plant stand by the entrance, his shoes kicking off, one bangs into the wall. A scuff from the rubber making Peter purse his lips. 

“Just don’t… touch anything,” Peter says as he bends over, wobbles, catches himself on the wall and unlaces his boots. He leaves them by the door and grasps Stiles by the shoulders and tries to decide what to do with him. His spine sticks out under a line of bruises that run up his nape, Peter touches them gently before Stiles shudders out from under his touch. 

Stiles puffs up for a minute, shoulders high, arms out before they drop and he sags. “What now?” 

It’s a good question, and Peter, he hums instead of answering. Nothing on the tip of his tongue but a bad taste. He reaches for Stiles’ hand instead, startling him out of the despair that’s starting to swell in his scent. 

The kitchen lights come on harsh when Peter slaps the panel so he hurries to dim them with a swipe of his thumb. “I didn’t expect to see you,” Peter says inelegantly as he grabs for stemless wine glasses and fills them at the fridge’s tap. He only splashes himself a bit, and the water on the floor absorbs into his sock. 

“Same - I… I didn’t think you’d go to that part of town,” Stiles says like he’s imploring Peter to know. His clumsy hands take the glass of water and he holds it like a toddler as he drinks. Deep and thirsty. “Never wanted to see you.” 

Peter snorts, a grin curving his mouth as he drinks, water trickling down his chin and to his chest before he slows a bit. He gets himself a refill and watches the way Stiles keeps swinging between flighty and depressed. 

“What were you doing there?” Peter asks though he doesn’t know if he cares. He grabs Stiles by the shirt, fingers sinking through the mesh, and drags him back around the granite island. Treads him across shining hardwood floors that radiate warmth and are bringing the blood back to their cold toes. 

Stiles gurgles, struggling to drink and walk and talk. “What do you think?” The bite is almost familiar, almost clear enough that Peter expects a gangly teen to come through the doorway of his bathroom and not a gangly twenty something. 

The bathroom lights are already set on dim when Peter touches the metal panel with his thumb. It’s all glass and stone, plants with dangling greenery hanging off the counters and dark towels that match. “Couldn’t keep your little human nose where it belonged,” Peter says with a drawl. Human hole-in-the-wall spots were bad enough, never mind the added angle of supernaturals. 

“Rich - a vampire?” Peter continues as he grabs another handful of Stiles’ shirt and starts shredding it off of him. It gives like wet paper, the threads snapping until Peter simply pushes it off his skin and drops it to the floor. The jeans he reaches to take off traditionally. 

“Maybe,” Stiles says and he’s got his face leaned into his glass, eyes shut. Pliable as Peter strips him. “He left me.” 

Peter looks up at how small the statement sounds, a little trembly, the edge of panic back. 

“Why’d - why’d he leave me - he knows,” Stiles keeps talking and he sounds weaker still, almost drops the glass when Peter jars the tight denim down his legs. “Don’t like the dark - don’t - Peter?” His voice tips up questioningly and his hand grips at Peter’s shoulder with all the strength he seems to have while his socks are taken off one by one. 

The tinny sound of Stiles’ attempted safeword at the club rings in Peter’s ears, bangs around his head until it’s lodged itself in as his responsibility. Pity them both. 

“It wasn’t you,” Peter finds himself saying, as he rubs his hands up trembling legs and guides Stiles over to his shower. Sitting him down on the pretentious smooth outcropping of the designed rock. “You’re alright.” 

Water sputters to life and Peter keeps his hand in until it’s warm enough and then presses the controls to turn the rainfall on. It makes Stiles squeak and jump but he settles fast. Head tipping up and his hair soaking back against his scalp. 

“Fancy pants,” Stiles says but he looks mildly more alert when he holds out his empty water glass for Peter to take and put on the counter. “So why’d you- rescue me?” 

Scoffing, Peter looks down on him, water spilling outside of the glass door as he leaves it open to strip himself. Their used club clothes in a singular pile before his glass sits next to Stiles’ and he steps under the water. “Perhaps I just want to know what you’re doing creeping around New York?” 

There’s a hum of contemplation before boney fingers graze Peter’s hips and make him look down at the lilting boy they belong to. “Nah,” Stiles breathes, blinking water out of clumped eyelashes, “rescued me.” His eyes dip down like he’s really just noticing that they’re both naked and Peter pushes his hands away and grabs his chin to draw it up before he gets any ideas. 

“Don’t tell,” Peter says as he thumbs over Stiles’ puffy mouth, raising a brow when pink lips part under the touch. “None of that.” Not that he isn’t tempting to the part of Peter that still feels the wolfsbood and the endless grief that sings for self destruction. 

Stiles looks at him and he sighs, catches himself with a small jolt and a frown before he settles as Peter pets his cheek with his thumb. “-don’t feel so good.” His hand comes up from his lap and he scrubs them in the water before he’s reaching again, for Peter’s wrist this time and hanging on. 

The air smells like cedar shortly as Peter scrubs a shower mitten with body wash and starts scraping the layers of other people from his body. “You called red, back there, didn’t you?” Peter asks but he isn’t really asking, he’s just looking for those big eyes to look at him with a bit of understanding when Peter pushes the mitten between each of his skinny fingers. 

“Yeah, we were,” Stiles’ hand flails and he curls his fingers up and sets them on his thigh as his head tilts and he watches Peter washing up his arm to his shoulder. Head turned to keep watching before he blinks back up when Peter switches sides. “Playing all night - sort of.” 

Peter hums and the cedar smell grows stronger as he adds more soap and then bends so he’s on his knees and Stiles is staring at him like he’s suddenly grown horns. “Doing dangerous things with dangerous people, I’m not surprised,” Peter says as he soaps down Stiles’ ribs and the boy twitches away from the touch. 

“You wouldn’t get it,” Stiles says when he’s wiggling his toes in Peter’s grip as soap bubbles up between them. “I just-” his foot jerks a bit when Peter brushes over the sole and then he tenses his ankles as Peter keeps washing anyway. “Just needed someone to feel - like that, don’t judge me asshole.” 

It’s just a spark of tone in his voice but Peter looks up to find Stiles glaring down at him unsurely, hair flopping across his brow and his arms tense and tight where he’s got them locked, hands gripped over his knees. Water is sluicing down his nose. 

“Would I judge you?” Peter asks, mouth curving up sharply as he drags Stiles to his feet and turns him around to wash his back; gone rigid and trembling again. “I’d have to care a bit more for that,” he says and some of the tension in Stiles’ shoulders eases down. 

They’re both silent after that, just a few mumbles from Stiles as he reads out product labels in a quietly mocking tone while Peter washes his hair. 

Out of some foreign urge of generosity, Peter lets him have the fluffy robe off the back of the door when they’re done and dried. 

Wrapped up, Stiles looks less frail but the fragility of him remains and his scent makes Peter follow muscle memory habits built at those reputable clubs with reputable friends. 

He’s got a peeled banana in his claws and Stiles’ head in his lap before he registers what he’s done. The pieces he feeds him are small enough to mush in his mouth, but Stiles doesn’t seem to mind, he sucks on Peter’s fingers and his heart beat finally settles. 

Peter thinks, if they had met at one of those reputable places, they wouldn’t be in this position. 

Morning would decide if that would have been better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter is inebriated, alcohol is mentioned, he finds Stiles in a dark back room where it is implied/stated his dom left him. 
> 
> Stiles uses a safeword and it is ignored because the dom isn't there anymore. But Peter saves the day (ish) so don't worry!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos I am 100% behind on answering those >>; 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this next chapter!!

In Peter’s opinion, and it’s his so it’s the only one that matters, waking to the smell of rotting corpses would have been preferable to the breath being puffed up at him from Stiles’ parted lips. It’s strong enough, and vile enough to his hypersensitive hangover senses, that he pushes a palm over Stiles’ mouth to give himself some reprieve. 

The boy, head still in his lap, startles awake and blurbles under the touch until he reaches up and drags Peter’s hand off of him so he can bolt into a sitting position, and immediately keel off the couch where he lands on the soft area rug with a thump. 

There’s a lot of moaning between the two of them. Peter rubs his heavy hands against his face, fingers pressing into his eyes so they’ll stop aching. “Shut up,” he says curtly when he hears Stiles inhale deeply enough to start a sentence. “Just -” he holds up a hand and it blindly lands in Stiles’ fluffy air dried hair. 

“Peter, Peter Hale,” Stiles is mumbling to himself from where he’s kneeling on the floor and burying his face into the darkness of his hands. “Peter the zombie Hale - took me home. Holy fuck.” 

“Rude,” Peter replies as he sits up to take stock. He’s massively dehydrated and has to piss something fierce so he stands, leaving Stiles to crawl back up on the sofa and situate himself as he goes to take care of pressing matters. 

When he returns, Stiles is examining the robe he’s wearing, peeking under it at his naked body every so often but seemingly just admiring the material. “Thanks,” he says, squinting at the glass of orange juice being pushed into his hands. One of his legs is bouncing enough that it shakes the sofa cushions. 

“So you’re in New York now?” Peter asks as he sits back on the sofa and draws the throw blanket, he’d been too tired to arrange last night, over his lap. 

Stiles looks up from where he’s swirling his juice and blinks, lips parting like a stunned fish and then he’s resolutely looking away towards the big shaded windows that act as a wall. 

“You’re still naked,” he remarks and then he clears his throat and sips the juice. “Yeah, I transferred here for the start of term. Dad thought - well I mean I wanted - Beacon Hills community college doesn’t have an archaeology program.” 

“So, you’ve ventured out on your own, alone in the big, big world,” Peter drawls, voice smooth and growing amused the sourer the face Stiles shoots him is. “And you’re making _excellent_ choices.” 

“Look, I know that wasn’t my best night, but you don’t have to be such a huge ass about it,” Stiles bites at him but his shoulders have hitched up near his ears defensively. “I didn’t plan for that to happen, no one’s fucked me over like that before. It was supposed to be-” his hand raises and falls, fingers spread out and then curling inward to make a loose fist that drops to the sofa beside him. 

Peter sighs, feels it coming straight from the dregs of his thinned patience. “Yes, you’re very grown up and out exploring your sexuality,” he waves a hand to indicate he doesn’t care about that at all, “I’m sure you’ve learned the dangers of trusting shady people to play nice?” 

“You’re playing nice,” Stiles shoots back with a smirk. He stands up to point out the browning banana peel on the coffee table before he rounds it and is walking towards the windows; whistling quietly at the view of confined nature and matching high rises around them. “When I found out you moved to New York I pictured a brownstone, to match all of the cardigans.” 

The banana peel has left slimy trails on the table top. A few strings stick to the wood. Peter recalls carefully peeling them off so they wouldn’t be bitter and thready in Stiles’ sleepy mouth. He reaches out and scoops it up to take to the sealed food wastes bin in the cupboard under the sink. 

There’s no real privacy, it’s an open concept layout, but the distance being in the kitchen provides feels safer. Easier to say, “cashmere matches everything,” with flippancy he doesn’t feel and a sharp gaze on Stiles’ back. His shoulders look like they’ve loosened under the fluffy robe, his fingers are tapping on the window wall. There will probably be fingerprints. 

“How long have you known I live here?” Peter asks when the quiet stretches out to the point of fraying. 

Stiles finally turns around, gaze tracking the vast minimalistically furnished space before they find Peter in the kitchen and stare through him. “I bugged your phone before you left, and then when you got a new one I had to rely on my sources,” his teeth show when he grins. “You’re not that hard to keep track of - swanning around the city.” 

Part of him wants to be affronted but there’s something warm and impressed curling in his belly instead. “Always the clever one,” he leans back and moves to start the coffee maker. “Coffee?” 

The groaning agreement makes Peter’s nose wrinkle up. 

“So - last night,” Stiles says as he wanders around the room, _touching things_ , the corner of an oil painting frame, the rim of a vase that Peter’s been meaning to buy flowers for, the spines of nearly every book he’s got his head cocked to read. “Usually I would be mega pissed about someone pulling rank on me when I’m out of it - but you weren’t a dickweed about it,” his tone lilts like he’s really got to contemplate that. “Why weren’t you a dickweed about it?” 

Peter raises a brow as two coffee mugs clink down on the counter top. “You didn’t seem to feel that way last night.”

A book slides off the shelf, Peter can’t see which one because Stiles holds it open flat in his hands. His voice comes after a distracted little hum. “Well, you were kind of a dick to start with, and my judgment was pretty fucking whacked out, so... “ He lifts his head enough to roll his eyes and make a vague go-on motion with the book. 

“If you’re asking why I didn’t leave you to be eaten alive in one of the worst bars around, I couldn’t say. You were pathetic,” Peter takes out a spoon from the drawer and sets it into one of the mugs, “and inevitably if you wandered out into the snow and died _someone_ would try to blame me - sharing a city, as we are.” 

“Bull,” Stiles mutters and the book snaps shut just to be replaced by another one. “But whatever - we can pretend you didn’t feel bad for me.”

Peter purses his lips and recalls the haunted feeling of devastation in Stiles’ voice as he’d begged for his… Rick? Rich? Companion? to come back for him. 

“Who was it that left you there?” 

Stiles' body pauses; he turns away a little, his face half hidden by the angle, “just a guy.” 

“Just a guy,” Peter repeats with a nod and gets out the coffee creamer. “Alright.” If that’s all he wanted to say, Peter’s curiosity was waning. “Cream, sugar?” 

“Both, yeah,” Stiles says while the book is neatly returned to its place. He walks over to stand on the opposite side of the island, nudging a bar stool so it scrapes on the floor with a harsh squeak and then popping up to sit on it. “That was some pretty good aftercare.” 

It’s clearly a prompt, Peter pauses to look over at him; the hickies on his throat are nearly hidden by the high puffy collar of the robe. “Thank you, I’m a natural caretaker,” he deadpans and then sets a ceramic mug in front of Stiles and pours coffee into it. 

Stiles snorts, an honest smile pulling up his mouth as he watches the cream and sugar swirl as the coffee fills the cup. “Thanks,” he says, voice quieter and his fingers tapping against the granite top. “I was dropping pretty ba-”

“I know,” Peter interrupts quietly, pouring out his own coffee before he leans forward with his elbows on the island. “You’re feeling better,” he adds. 

“Yeah, tired but,” Stiles’ hand rubs over his chest, and then flits up so he can press a bent knuckle between his brows, “could be a lot worse.” 

Their coffee disappears quietly between a few thoughtful looks. The morning light is giving way to the afternoon. Peter scratches at his chest, rasping through groomed hair, and puffing an amused laugh as Stiles’ gaze sharpens in on the motion. No longer glazed and distant but actively observing. 

“Do you just - are you an at home nudist?” Stiles asks as he leans forward on his elbows, empty mug still in hand as he peers down Peter’s front and then snaps his gaze back up with impish mirth. “Is this how an urban werewolf expresses his connection to his shirt ripping heritage?” 

“Right, and when exactly are you leaving?” Peter says as he straightens up and steps back to put his finished mug down beside the pot. He puts the creamer away, twice as aware of his bare ass when Stiles whistles at him; noise cracking into a grunt of hangover pain. 

Stiles slurps up the last clinging drip of his coffee and pushes his mug across the island a few inches before lurching back to his feet. He rubs at his temples with the tips of bony fingers. 

“Can I borrow a shirt? I’m not riding the subway with my nips out. I’m not that guy.” 

“Borrow, implies you’ll give it back,” Peter says as he rounds the island and hooks a few fingers for Stiles to follow him. 

They part ways at the bathroom; the door nudged shut behind Stiles. Peter keeps walking straight into his closet, taking the first moment to slip into a silky floral robe he’s fairly sure was a gift. He debates which of his shirts he’d be willing to donate. 

Stiles’ scent is layered with sweat, bodies and booze when he pads through the bedroom into the closet door frame. “This is…,” he makes a face and waves his hands, the sleeves of the robe falling down his arms and the hem now brushing over very skinny jean covered legs. 

Peter grabs for a plain navy vee neck and one of his few zippable sweaters. “Did you go out without a coat?” He asks as he catches the robe Stiles shrugs out of and throws in his direction. 

“No, it’s probably in Rich’s car, I’ll have to text him,” Stiles says while pulling the shirt on and thumbing the neckline with a wrinkle of his nose. He slides into the sweater and smiles with obvious satisfaction while zipping it all the way up. “You don’t have any aspirin, hey? Probably just chew straight on the willow bark.”

It’s mostly to keep him from rambling on that Peter lifts a hand and wraps it around Stiles’ nape, little black lines slithering up his hand as he pushes Stiles bodily out of his closet, bedroom, down the hall and to the entryway. 

“Thanks,” Stiles says with a smirk that seems like he’s sharing a joke with himself. He sits on the ground to start loosening the already untied laces of his shoes. Jimmying a house key from under a piece of duct tape on the tongue of his left, and a twenty from under the sole of his right.

“So,” he says as he starts to tie up his laces. 

It’s strange, watching Stiles get ready to leave, a sense of unfinished business making Peter feel mildly on edge as Stiles sorts himself out. “You’re going to freeze.” 

“Not if I jog to the station and stand uncomfortably close to other train passengers,” Stiles returns and flicks his index finger upwards at Peter. 

“I’ll call you a cab.” 

Peter does so while he goes to find his wallet, ignoring Stiles’ jumble of disagreement following behind him a few steps. 

“Just - take this and wait in the lobby.” Peter shoves two fifties into Stiles’ hand and pushes his fingers closed around the bills. “Go.” 

Stiles does. He clutches the money and shoves it into his pocket before stepping in and pressing a kiss to Peter’s mouth. Too quick to be anything but a mirror of the soft, “thanks, Peter,” he murmurs. He turns away and lets Peter push him into the elevator. 

One of his shoes is still untied. 

\---

Over the next week Peter visits the empty hangers in his closet and thinks about Stiles. He should move them, erase the two thin gaps in his curated racks, but there’s a tiny spark of hope in his belly that Stiles _will_ return the clothes. 

The days crawl by like they always do this time of year, when the ghosts are the loudest, but the desperate, panicked urge to drown himself in reckless people has all but disappeared. His skin doesn’t feel too tight; he doesn’t go out again. 

Peter thinks about Stiles’ mouth on his fingers when he buys fresh fruit at the grocer. He starts to notice the beauty marks on his preferred barista’s face. A documentary about sunken ships makes him wonder what sort of archaeology Stiles is studying – and what he plans to do with the degree when he has it. It’s easy to imagine Stiles’ long fingers cradling priceless pieces of history. 

It’s easy to imagine Stiles doing a lot of things; Peter wonders if he’s gone back to that bar.

Maybe he’s fixating. And, maybe, he should be concerned that he thinks about Stiles so often, but the alternatives keep him up at night. The distraction is nice.

It’s nine days before Peter’s phone lights up with an unknown number at eleven at night while he’s queuing up the British Bake Off in bed. 

_‘Did you pose for this?’_ The text reads and then a photo pops up. It’s a framed picture of a wolf, head tipped back and howling, a dark outline against a frighteningly neon pink background, and of course it’s in _velvet_ . There’s a blue circular sticker that notes the marginal art as being five dollars; it’s clearly part of a pile of unwanted wall hangings. Peter squints, baffled by the message and the sender for only a few seconds before another comes through, ‘ _This is Stiles’_ _  
_ _  
_ _‘You’re aware this is a private number?’_ Peter sends back, thumbs tapping on the edge of his phone while he waits for the little incoming dots to become a message. 

_‘So I shouldn’t have sold it to every telemarketing company I could think of? My bad’_ _  
_  
Peter fumbles for his remote and pauses the television before he misses anything he’ll have to rewind. He slides deeper into his covers. _‘I hate telemarketers, I would have to kill you slowly. I doubt anyone would blame me.’_

The next responses come in rapid fire, it’s easy to hear the way Stiles might intonate the words. 

_‘Tru.’_ _  
_ _‘I bought it’_ _  
_ _‘Splurge of the week #thrifting’_ _  
_  
It’s hard to think of five dollars as a splurge but Peter snorts anyways. _‘If that matches the rest of your home, I’m horrified. Where did you put it?’_ _  
_ _  
_ There’s a pause long enough that Peter’s brows come down before another picture comes through. This time it’s the painting but it’s hanging on a yellowed wall above an ancient looking pressboard desk; the laminate on all of the corners of the desktop chipped away. 

_‘It gives me inspiration when I’m writing papers’_ Stiles texts. 

Peter’s nose wrinkles sharply as he types out, _‘What sort of papers could that inspire?’_ _  
_ _  
_ _‘Ones about werewolves, duh.’_ _  
_ _  
_ _‘You’re writing papers about werewolves? Not very good with secrets are you, sweetheart?’_ Peter shifts his phone between his palms and tucks his chin better to his chest. 

_‘I’m studying the origins of some mythos and how it overlaps with misunderstanding bone records and oral histories.’_ Stiles texts and Peter is unfairly impressed. 

He types back, _‘You turned werewolves into a legitimate study. I shouldn’t be surprised. You know there are a fair number of actual werewolf bone records?’_

 _‘!!!’_ The text comes in and Peter huffs. _‘Dude serious? I’ve been trying to track that shit down for months. No one wants to give a rando human their precious bones. And I’m pretty sure I’d get actually eaten if I tried to impersonate a wolf. I thought about it.’_

 _‘Yes, well it isn’t something that should make its way into mainstream university resources?’_ Peter taps out. 

_‘Duh, yeah. I’m cobbling together the human perspective for class. The fun stuff I’m saving. I’m going to do my masters with one of the mythology profs- she’s a witch. She’s been doing privately sourced research for years.’_

_‘Seems like you’re planning on staying in the city for a while then?’_ Peter types and tries to think about what it had been like leaving home for college. Freedom and relief come to mind - though he’d missed the gaggle of nieces and nephews. 

Peter waits on a reply for twenty minutes, incoming dots starting and stopping in seemingly random intervals. 

_‘I guess’_ finally pops up on his screen.

The show’s been unpaused but Peter’s fairly sure he hasn’t actually seen the Signature Challenge. He rewinds it while he thinks of what to say next. 

He’s just starting to type when another message from Stiles comes through, _‘Be home on Friday.’_

 _‘What time?’_ Peter sends back _._

_‘Idk :)’_

Peter purses his lips while he deletes and retypes two separate complaints.

Apparently, he takes too long because Stiles sends _‘goodnight, Peter’_ with a string of emojis before he can express how unreasonable it is not to specify a time.

 _Wolf, moon, pink heart_. 

_‘Goodnight, Stiles.’_ Peter texts for lack of any better response. He puts his phone on the charging pad next to his lamp and stares at the ceiling for a long few breaths; mindful of how the cool air aches at the base of his lungs before he exhales. 

It takes two episodes before he can fall asleep. 

\---

“The security guy winked at me,” Stiles says on Friday evening as he’s stepping off of the elevator into Peter’s penthouse.  
  
There’s dual thumps as his shoes kick off and bang into the closet door. He struggles out of a worn winter coat that smells like second hand smoke and old cologne. Peter watches as it’s dumped on the floor, grateful that the scents won’t rub off on anything in his closet. 

“Salacious,” Peter yawns, laid out on the sofa, as he sets his phone down on the coffee table and clasps his hands over his sternum.  
  
Stiles snorts. “Maybe he saw the security tapes from the other night and wants to get up on all of this,” he makes a vague encompassing gesture over his body; far more covered than it had been the last time. He digs into a messenger bag he’s placed on the floor, pulling out the borrowed shirt and sweater, loosely folded. Stiles holds them outstretched as he comes to the couch. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Peter says, eyeing the clothes before he reaches one hand to grab for them and moves the stack to the coffee table. They smell like laundromat detergent. “You got your coat back?” 

“Yeah, Rich dropped it off, he said he was sorry. Sort of.” Stiles makes a see-sawing gesture and comes around to drop himself on the other end of the sofa. Directly on top of Peter’s ankles and shins. “Apparently he was only going to leave me for a few minutes - get a drink or something, for suspense.” His lower lip curls up and his body jostles as Peter pulls his feet out from under him. “Said he lost track of time.”  
  
Peter mirrors the expression. “Lost track of time.”  
  
“Yeah - because _time just moves differently for me, Stiles, seconds - minutes - they’re just constructs,_ ” his voice has dropped low and mocking, complete with a little bobble of his head. “He’s lost track of time before.”  
  
“Vampires aren’t _actually_ immortal,” Peter says slowly, brow raising up. He doesn’t like the implication - wants to ask about all of the befores.  
  
Stiles slouches into the couch cushion, sliding down so his head is supported, his hands link and rest on his belly.  
  
“No, yeah, I know. He’s just one of those moody, pretentious hipsters. The kind that wears driving gloves and tells people not to say good morning because they can’t decide if it’s good. _Everything’s_ a construct.” 

There’s no hiding the disparaging sound Peter makes. His mouth has twisted down with distaste and judgment. “And, how long have you been dating this - charming fellow?” 

“I’m not. I told you.” Stiles says, looking over with a loll to his neck, his cheek is compressed against the cushion. “He’s just a guy.”

“Just a guy,” Peter echos before a quiet draws out between them. All of the time he’d spent recalling the moles on Stiles’ face somehow makes them seem starker in person. Peter can’t help but let his gaze wander between them across cheek and jaw, down a pale throat sporting just a few spidery red marks where the hickies had been. 

Stiles’ tongue bulges out his cheek while he hums a noise, moving to stand up. “So, yep. Thanks for the loan.” 

Startled, Peter’s brows come up and his belly tenses as he sits straighter, rising off the armrest supporting his shoulders. He hadn’t expected Stiles to leave so soon. Though, really, he’s not sure what he had expected. 

“You’re welcome.” 

There’s a loose thread on Stiles’ hoodie sleeve that swings when he lifts his hand up to rub through his hair. It flutters until Stiles seems to notice it and then it becomes the focus of his attention; fingers twining it into tiny red ball.  
  
“Cool. Well,” Stiles says, he’s looking at Peter, brows faintly lifted. The expectation in the words hangs out like an offering. The bright pot lights in the ceiling make his eyes shine. 

Peter licks his lips and gets to his feet, “I suppose it’s dinner time.” His palms brush his shirt down against his belly until his hands fall to his sides. 

“Yep… there’s a package of instant noodles waiting for me at home.” Stiles’ mouth goes tight, softening into something like disappointment as he rounds the couch on the way back towards the front hall closet. 

Peter loiters for a moment before he’s following, a scoff and a more comfortable line of judgment to the crinkle of his nose. “Instant noodles? Very nutritious.” 

“I’m carb loading.” Stiles looks over his shoulder at Peter when he’s neared his shoes. “It’s called the eat-what-you-can-afford diet.” 

“You’re going to get scurvy,” Peter says. Disgruntled. “Did you know that humans can _still_ get scurvy? I read an article on Yahoo.” 

Stiles cracks a laugh like a record scratch, it’s sharp and barely lasts a breath. He’s looking at Peter with an expression that’s not easy to place. “I’m not going to get scurvy,” he assures with a wrinkle to his nose.

“You might.”

Peter turns away and goes back to the couch to pick up his phone. “I’m ordering Thai.” 

While they wait for the food, Stiles wanders the penthouse. He draws his fingers against the bright white walls that Peter had never bothered to paint, he leaves fingerprints on the floor to ceiling glass window panes, and he takes the calendar off the wall in the kitchen. 

“You’re so old,” Stiles says, tongue between his front teeth as he looks at the front cover of the calendar; a gleaming cherry red Shelby. “Where did you even buy this?”  
  
“It’s a calendar,” Peter snips back, bewildered and annoyed. “I bought it at a store - put it back.” 

“You were going back to Beacon Hills,” Stiles says, soft and stilted. He’s flipped the page back open to January. 

Red pen marks the canceled trip. The ink stands out sharply against the black and white dates, bracketing the weekend he’d found Stiles. The Friday, the Full Moon, the Wolf Moon is pricked through, a slightly crooked tear in the paper where a claw had slipped out of his shaking finger. 

Stiles traces out the catch in the slick paper, his lip rolled between his teeth. His scent has gone sharp, stinging with pity that has Peter turning away to take glasses down from the cupboard. 

It’s the first anniversary he hadn’t gone back to visit the graves. 

“Do you want iced tea or raspberry juice?” Peter stares into the fridge, jaw tightening the longer he can feel Stiles’ eyes on him. 

“Juice,” Stiles says. He puts the calendar down on the counter, walking over to get a pen from the cup sitting near the power bar on the island. “So, do you go to that bar a lot or is it a full moon special?” 

“I go when the urge strikes,” Peter says, measuring out his words as he pours them both juice. The deep red stains his finger where he catches a drip that slides down the edge of one of the glasses. 

Stiles hums, his body scraping by Peter’s as he reaches for a glass of juice. His eyes are heavy and knowing when Peter finally meets them. “I get it.” There’s a wrenching honesty to the statement. “As much as I can, I guess.” Swigging his juice, mouth puckering at the first sweet-sour sip, Stiles reaches out and uses Peter’s bicep to click the top of the pen he’s holding before he returns his attention to the calendar. The pages creak as he flips through every month, examining each blank spread and then backtracking to April. He writes ‘STILES BIRTHDAY’ and circles it twice. 

“You can’t have a real paper calendar and leave it filled with national holidays,” Stiles declares. Adding an exclamation point before hanging the calendar up and putting the pen back. 

Peter feels a helpless sort of heat in his throat. The raspberry juice doesn’t wash it away. 

Dinner arrives before they run out of small talk. 

Stiles sets the book he’d filched off the shelf down on the coffee table. They eat at the kitchen island; rubbing elbows and protecting their respective summer rolls from wandering utensils though Stiles eats them with his hands. Stiles talks before he’s fully swallowed when he starts explaining how he’d gotten a scholarship to go to NYU, and Peter’s only mildly horrified by the wet undertone to the passion he has when he talks about his studies. 

When they’re done, Peter packs the leftovers into the biggest of the takeout boxes for Stiles to take home with him. 

“I forgot how much I like vegetables,” Stiles says when he’s leaning down on the island, cheek on the cold granite, a hand cradling his bloated belly through his sweater. “I haven’t had a carrot in months, Peter.” 

“Scurvy,” Peter reminds with a disquieted curl to his lip. He sets the takeout down and stares at the back of Stiles’ exposed neck. Stiles’ eyes are closed, lips a little parted, one arm stretched out over the counter.

“Maybe,” he mumbles.

When Peter gives in to the temptation of petting his hair, broad palm settling on his nape for a squeeze, Stiles blinks at him with the corners of his mouth quirked up. It occurs to Peter that it’s been a long time since he’s shared a meal with someone so casually. No business to discuss. No pretense. 

Stiles hums before he lifts his head and looks up at Peter. “I would offer to blow you but I’m so full I think I’d throw-” 

“Right, and when exactly are you leaving?” Peter interrupts, hand coming up sharply, his nose wrinkling as he steps away. 

Stiles cackles, making a point of patting his belly when he slides himself off his bar stool. He walks over to the living room to pick up the book he’d been reading; an old leather bound volume about herbs in witchcraft. “Can I borrow this?”

“Borrow implies you’re going to give it back,” Peter says, tongue wetting his lip as he meets Stiles’ gaze and raises a brow. 

Stiles shrugs, “Yeah.” Like he's dropping a gauntlet. 

Peter nods once and then Stiles moves to put the book into his bag, careful of the edges. There’s no argument when Peter calls a cab this time. Stiles takes the money for the fare with an amused smile, he slips the bills into a Deadpool wallet that he wasn’t carrying the other night. 

“Thanks, Peter.” Stiles clutches the takeout box to his chest.

This time, the parting kiss smells like peanut sauce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note. Chapter number has definitely gone up. See end notes for content details/warnings/spoilers.

On the Tuesday night following Stiles’ last visit, he’s over again but colder this time. Peter watches as Stiles slinks through the elevator doors as they open and quickly shucks his shoes to stretch his socked feet against the heated floorboards. 

“It’s freezing tonight,” Stiles complains, shivering and chattering. The words half broken up on a shaky inhale. His cheeks are red and the tip of his nose looks a little frost bitten. 

Peter tries to recall the number of blocks to the nearest subway station and decides he’s likely never known, but it isn’t around the corner. He also eyes up the way Stiles clutches his jacket closed. The zipper looks snapped off at the bottom, the edge of the metal teeth frayed out. 

“Nice of you to drop by,” Peter says instead of acknowledging the way Stiles trembles or how pale his lips are. “Was the book useful to you?” 

Stiles is hunched where he stands, his eyelashes wetly clumped like they melted on the lift ride up. “Yup,” he says through tight teeth, with a slightly watery misery about him.

The backpack on Stiles’ shoulder shivers with him, the motion getting a little more pronounced in the warmth of the condo. Peter rolls his eyes and lifts a few fingers to gesture Stiles deeper inside. Tea seems required, so he goes to turn on the kettle. 

“Put your jacket on the table,” Peter instructs as he leans on the kitchen island and peers at where Stiles is puffing it up around his shoulders like a chickadee. “There’s a blanket -” 

Stiles dumps the jacket and is curled on the sofa, in Peter’s abandoned warm spot, underneath the cashmere throw before Peter can finish pointing it out. 

“On the sofa…” Peter says. His mouth twitches up before he settles the fondness by busying himself pulling mugs down. It’s quiet with Stiles just stuttering cold breaths instead of chatting at him. The spoons clink, the kettle beeps, Peter sighs as he pours out the water over a tea bag that he transfers between the cups. 

He brings two mugs of milky sweetened Chai to the living room and sits on the sofa beside Stiles. Curled up Stiles manages to squish onto just one of the large cushions, everything tucked under the blanket. Peter sets one mug down on a coaster and uses that hand to pull the blanket off Stiles’ head with a raised brow. 

“Why are you out during a cold advisory in dollar store gloves without a hat?” Peter asks, and Stiles wrinkles his nose at him but brings icy fingers up to grab the mug. 

With a soft yelping startled noise, Stiles’ fingers flex away from the mug as the heat burns through his hands but he stubbornly doesn’t take it from the handle. He cradles the heat and brings it against him, tucked between his chest and the tops of his thighs. 

“Shut up,” Stiles mumbles. 

Peter blinks at him, leaning forward to get his own mug before resting back against the sofa. He eyes Stiles but his guest seems determined to follow his own demand. It’s strange how concerning that is. 

“Well, you know what they say about body heat,” Peter drawls while he lifts the corner of Stiles’ blanket to lay over his own lap. He twists a little, tossing his arm around Stiles’ shoulders and tucking his fingers down the front of his hoodie neck hole. It’s stretched out enough Peter can lay warm fingers just below Stiles’ throat. The heel of his hand rests on the side of Stiles’ neck. 

“Why don’t you take some of this off,” Peter suggests as he stretches his hand underneath the multiple layers of shirt and sweater. 

“You’re only supposed to take off wet clothes,” Stiles says, voice interrupted by a slurp of tea, but he twists into Peter and shifts his toes under Peter’s thigh. His neck arches, just a little, into Peter’s palm. 

“Oh?” Peter feigns and sips his tea with a demure expression, fingertips flexing a bit to rub gently at Stiles’ cold skin, his hand lays a little heavier. 

Stiles snorts and lifts his mug for a few deep swallows. 

The tea seems to warm up Stiles’ voice because he’s chattering by the time the mug is finished. 

“So why do you have a book on magic herbs? Are you doing magic these days? Did you become a hedge witch - I knew we shouldn’t have let you go unsupervised.” Stiles’ neck has relaxed back against Peter’s bicep and his lips are back to their natural rosy shade of pink. 

“Me? I would never,” Peter says with a wrinkle to the tip of his nose. “You know how they like to socialize - all that coven business.” 

“Yeah, right. I forgot you’re shit with organized supernatural social groups?” Stiles' voice goes flat while his eyes narrow. “Did you find a pack here?” 

Peter’s chest freezes in the middle of his next inhale. He finds himself suppressing the urge to push Stiles off the sofa. “There are plenty of packs in New York,” he says instead.

“Any of them yours?” Stiles wheedles further. 

“I’m taking a break from other people,” Peter says and cracks a smile at the way Stiles barks out laughter that shakes them both. 

“Gotcha,” Stiles slaps a hand on Peter’s chest, eyes crinkling. He exhales out a few dregs of a chuckle before he shrugs one shoulder and his gaze flicks around Peter’s face. “Same.” 

Peter swallows, feeling tense and cornered and seen and _relieved._ It’s not a combination of emotions he’s willing to stew in for more than a moment of lingering eye contact. 

“Have you eaten dinner?” Peter asks, quieter than he means his voice to be. 

“Dude it’s like, after ten,” Stiles points out, he grimaces a little when Peter just waits.“... I could eat.”

“Order something - I’m going to fix that hideous, nicotine filled jacket of yours.” 

“You’re going to what?” Stiles says, his feet thunking to the floor as he half follows Peter who’s moving to stand up. He rubs at his neck with the heel of his hand where Peter’s touch had been, but his expression seems thoughtful. Stiles' heartbeat is suspiciously calm compared to the waking rabbit thump Peter expects. 

“Order-” Peter says with a curt hand wave in his direction. He can feel Stiles’ gaze on him. “There are menus in the drawer beside you.” 

Stiles pulls his phone out of the pouch of his hoodie and scrolls along the screen before he’s opening up the drawer of the side table with a thunk. Slick finished paper rustles as he pulls out a handful of take-out options. Stiles gives a hyperbolic whistle and fans himself with the menus, squinting like he wants to say something that a short curl of Peter’s lip quiets. 

“Preference?” Stiles asks. 

“No.” 

“Gotcha - Pizza.” Stiles keeps the single pizza menu in his lap and makes a little choking noise when he opens it. “Have you _seen_ these prices? Is the crust gold leaf?” 

Peter pauses where he’s picked up the jacket, lowering the smoky thing to look at Stiles over the collar of it. His mouth twists in a disapproving frown as he makes a sarcastic gesture to the extravagance around them. 

Stiles’ mouth snaps shut when he looks up at the high ceiling and then out the window wall at the view of Central Park. 

“Right…” he drags out with a slow nod, “Meat lovers? Hawaiian? Oh this one has goat cheese -” 

“Sure,” Peter says on a sigh and disappears out of the central area. He hasn’t fixed a zipper in years, but considering how ugly the jacket is, he’s fairly sure some crooked hand stitching could only improve it. 

When he comes back he’s got a hefty three drawer craft tower in his hands and Stiles is staring out the window with his phone to his ear and the blanket on his shoulders like a cape. 

Peter tunes out Stiles’ high pitched acceptance of the final total as he sits himself at the kitchen table with the jacket and a seam ripper. “How did you manage to rip the entire end off this?” 

It’s not just that the zipper pull is missing, the entire bottom of the zipper is crushed and ripped off. 

“Huh? Oh I got it stuck in - you know what” Stiles flails his hand, “doesn’t matter.” He walks over to loom against the table. “You can sew?” 

“No,” Peter deadpans, brow dented and his mouth a flat line. He pops another seam with an exaggerated motion. 

“I just didn’t expect it!” Stiles defends but he takes up a seat and scoots it over close so he can watch with his elbows on the table. 

Peter pulls a breath, “Werewolf children tend to rip things.” 

Stiles makes a throaty noise, gaze flicking up from Peter’s hands to his face. 

“Between my little brother, my cousins and then their children, my sister’s children... I’ve been sewing since I was twelve.” 

“Huh,” Stiles exhales and he’s got a bloom of that pitying smell to him again. “Neat.” 

Peter huffs, looking up and eyeing Stiles for a moment. He knows Stiles has questions bubbling up, he expects them to all tumble out in a rapid painful inquisition. 

“Seems useful,” Stiles says. His brows are a little furrowed but he stays quiet, biting the side of his thumb and turning his attention to the drawers sitting on the table. He rummages until he finds a jar of buttons. “Is that a lady bug?” 

Peter doesn’t answer, but his feedback is clearly not required. Stiles upends the button jar on the table top and remains shockingly silent as he starts to arrange them by color. His heartbeat settles back down from the spike of emotion, it becomes a slow and steady thump that Peter works to. 

The jacket is zipperless before Stiles seems to lose focus and he’s sweeping the buttons back into the jar. Fingers tapping on the table top. 

“Could you find me some black thread?” Peter asks. 

Stiles returns to rummaging, pulling out a spool a few moments later. 

“Thank you. And the scissors please...” Peter adds and Stiles goes back to looking with a very quiet efficiency. Peter inhales a slight sniff and his mouth quirks at the notes of something familiar. 

“That’s perfect, sweetheart.” 

“Mm,” Stiles hums and returns to watching Peter’s hands in their repetitive movement. He stops fidgeting, and his lips part a little, hands spread out around the jar of buttons that he very slowly tips from side to side. There’s a soft tinkle of buttons against glass as he does. 

“Find me a length of zipper,” Peter murmurs next and Stiles does. It’s the most domestic Peter’s been in… well perhaps ever. 

Stiles makes the occasional agreeable noise, particularly after Peter acknowledges his help or pats his leg. His scent blooms into an even deeper, sweeter, contentment when Peter gives Stiles’ nape a little squeeze and his hair a comb through when he pauses between a few stitches to stretch out his hand. It’s a scent Peter recalls falling asleep to the other night with Stiles’ head resting in his lap. 

When Peter’s done the jacket, having outsourced every piece of supply finding, the thread cutting, and the small amount of tidying to Stiles, he has a very sedated looking sub leaning on his shoulder. 

Stiles’ eyes are half lidded and he’s clutching his blanket cape around him as Peter fiddles with testing out the zipper. It’s too short, doesn’t run the length of the jacket but it’s enough to keep the damn thing closed until Stiles buys a new one. 

Or until he buys Stiles a new one - can’t have him dying of exposure.

“There we are,” Peter says and tilts his head to look down at sleepy brown eyes. 

“That’s amazing,” Stiles tells him with a sigh that has Peter holding back a laugh. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

“Thank you for the assistance,” Peter sets the jacket down, folding it up into a bulky square before he slides his hand off of the table to rest it on Stiles’ knee. He gives the bony joint a firm squeeze and a warm shake. “Pizza will be here soon.” 

“Hell yeah,” Stiles nods, the motion just a little bob that doesn’t seem to want to stop until Peter stands up and jostles him. 

“Go, wash up and wait on the sofa,” Peter shoos him off, raising a brow when Stiles looks ready to droop over the table top instead. “Go.” 

Stiles sighs but stands up, his body swaying toward Peter in a way that seems heat seeking and instinctive. He leans his weight into Peter’s side and reaches up to fiddle with his cape, tying the blanket ends into a thick knot around his neck so it will stay on its own. He grins so wide that Peter, strangely, doesn’t want to snark at him for stretching out the cashmere. 

In fifteen minutes Peter’s gone down to the lobby and back, toting medium pizzas and a small box of cheesy bread. 

On the sofa, Stiles is sitting up and looking a lot more alert than when Peter left him. He's laid out two plates and a roll of paper towel. There’s glasses of juice from the fridge on coasters and both mugs are gone. His face looks damp, and the edge of his hair is slicked back and fraying up at odd angles. Like he splashed himself awake. 

“Do you want to watch something?” Peter asks as he sets the boxes down and Stiles inhales deeply over the steam coming out of the edges of the top box. 

Stiles reaches to peek at each pie carefully. “Yeah, sounds good. I’m feeling Hugh Grant.” 

Humming, Peter settles down with his remote and fiddles through his subscription services until he’s got Two Weeks Notice playing. He watches Stiles slide four pieces of pizza onto his plate, stacking them at angles for minimal soggy overlap. His knee is bouncing again. 

“You know, you could leave them in the box until you’re ready, they’ll still be there…” Peter says as he takes a slice of the meat pizza and piece of cheesy bread. 

“Uh, most of the pizza I’ve eaten in the last four years was with a hoard of werewolves who will eat your food when they’re not even hungry so,” he makes a vague gesture with his shoulder, “I guess… it’s a habit.” Stiles sucks hot cheese and grease off his thumb before he slouches down against the sofa back. He uses his chest to balance the edge of his plate so he can eat over it. 

“And all habits are good and worth keeping into adulthood,” Peter says, dry with a side eye for the way Stiles chews with his head tipped back slightly - it’s vaguely reminiscent of a fledgling. 

“Shut up,” Stiles says, lifting his socked feet to the edge of the table. “Plus, this way I don’t have to get up for a while.” 

“By all means… Eat like a starving carrion bird on my ten thousand dollar sofa.” Peter smirks when Stiles chokes and sits up over his plate, gaze flicking around himself as if he might have dropped grease without noticing. He moves to stand up but Peter grabs him by the nape to keep him sitting. “Relax.” 

“Sofas and cars shouldn’t be the same price Peter,” Stiles says, voice low and dreary. 

“Trust me, mine aren’t. Could you even imagine.” Peter blows a breath because a car that price would have to be _used_ and as if he’d even _consider_ that. 

“Snob,” Stiles accuses, but his mouth has curled up and he’s leaned back the way he was, taking slightly smaller bites. 

Peter eats his pizza one slice at a time. Stiles goes back for another and bread a while later. 

When Sandra Bullock is ruining her tennis whites, Stiles is slumped over into Peter’s shoulder. 

“Couples who have a horrible poop story, those are the ones that really make it,” Stiles announces on a wet snort of laughter. 

Peter wrinkles his nose and pulls his arm around Stiles, it’s more comfortable than having his arm cramped between them. “Being a confirmed bachelor gets better everyday.” 

Stiles huffs and stretches his feet out along the sofa, laying half curled, hands clutched in the blanket and his eyes closing for blinks that last too long. 

He’s asleep before the movie is finished, Peter listens to him snore. It’s awful, wet, with a bit of a snort, and intermittent enough that he’s never quite expecting it. 

When the credits roll, Peter slips out, putting the pizza away as Stiles sways on the sofa and squints over the back of it at him. 

“Wa’ime ‘s it?” Stiles garbles, his hand pushing his hair back and his head falling to the side.  
  
“Quarter after one,” Peter informs by the light on the stove. He closes the fridge and comes back to lean with his hands braced on the sofa back. “Do you want to go home?” 

Stiles gathers himself up, he looks like he’s barely scraping wakefulness as he visibly prepares himself to get up and leave. 

“I have a guest room.” 

“You have a bedroom.”

“Bold,” Peter mutters and reaches out to smooth Stiles’ skewed hair with a quiet sneer curling his lip. 

Stiles reaches up to grab his wrist and yawns, using their combined limbs to block it out before he’s blinking up at Peter with a lopsided smile. “Carry me.”

The glow of the television makes Stiles look sort of blue and Peter can’t judge how serious he is. He doesn’t smell overly mischievous, his eyes are drooping again. 

“I don’t like you that much,” Peter decides, shoving Stiles’ head lightly as he straightens up to get the remote and turn off the television. He gives Stiles a withering look but tilts his head for him to follow as he walks toward the hall. 

This time they take turns in the bathroom and Stiles strips himself. 

When Peter gets into bed he realizes he’s got to choose a side for the first time in… a while. He settles on the right and tucks himself under the thin blanket. Being hot at night was one of his peeves; he’s already annoyed to be wearing his lounge pants to sleep. 

Stiles arrives shortly, wearing his boxers with his blanket cape untied. He stumbles into bed and under the blankets with the grace of a badger taking to ground. It takes a moment for him to come back out for air as he wiggles from the bottom of the blanket up to the pillows. 

It’s strange having a soft heartbeat and slow breathing beside him. It’s strange that it’s entirely welcome. Peter feels the desire for closeness sitting low in his chest, expanding by the moment. 

Stiles smells like his cedar face soap and spearmint mouthwash. 

“Goodnight, Peter,” Stiles mumbles, crossing the centerline of the bed to be pressed into Peter’s side at the shoulder and calf. 

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' drops by and there's some undiscussed subby-ness that happens that Peter doesn't really intend for. Very soft, mostly instruction and praise. 
> 
> Also. This chapter is short but double update~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags! Read them please! End notes for chapter summary/warnings

“Hey, wolfman?” Stiles asks into the dark not five minutes after they’ve settled. 

Peter doesn’t like the tone, the quiet of it, the implication that Stiles is mulling over something. Likely something Peter doesn’t want to talk about, like the intimacy of sharing a bed. Licking his teeth, Peter smirks and props up a brow, voice gone low. “What, sweetheart?” 

“Wait- what’s that face for?” Stiles asks with a slight double take of suspicion; he shifts against the bed, reaching down to adjust something under the blanket with a slightly guilty flicker of his gaze to the side. 

“What face?” Peter arches his brow higher. 

“That face. The sexy face. Like a sexy- lion. No wait, lions are lazy, uh a- something. A something that hunts for sport. Like-“ 

“It may just be my face.” 

“A republican!” Stiles’ cheeks have gone pink as he tangents, his lips pursed and his eyes darting to the side like he isn’t sure what the hell he’s saying anymore either. His chest puffs up and down in the dim light, he’s rolled to be flat on his back and propped on one elbow. The blanket rustles against his bare chest as Stiles pulls it up to cover himself and wiggle his feet. 

“That’s despicable,” Peter says. 

“What is?”

“You just said-,” Peter pauses, pulls a slow breath and lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose firmly. “Nevermind. Goodnight, Stiles.” 

“Oh?” Stiles tongue wets his lower lip in a nervous flick. “Yeah, goodnight.” 

Peter stares over at Stiles for a long moment. He seems frozen, like he’s been set to pause in the middle of a thought and Peter doesn’t know what to make of it. Ignoring the awkward seems to be for the best, so he slips down the bed under the blankets better and rolls to his side facing the middle. 

“You’ve got nice sheets.” Stiles lays back down slowly, his arm buckling in a jerky drop before he wiggles to get comfortable on his back. It only takes a moment for him to roll over to face Peter. “Probably have a lot of threads, right?” 

“Yes.”

“Cool.” Stiles’ fingers fiddle with the sheet he’s tucked under his chin. “Do you think there’s a business for counterfeit sheets? I mean, who is going to count the threads in their sheets once they buy them?” 

“Stiles.”

“Hm?”

“Go to sleep.” 

For nearly two minutes Peter listens to Stiles breathe at various paces, as if he’s swinging in and out of awareness of it and attempting to control the rate. His heartbeat slowly picks up as well, climbing away from anything resembling resting. 

“Stiles,” Peter sighs, putting disapproval into it as he cracks his eyes back open and watches Stiles watching him. Stiles’ eyes are a little wide, lips parted, pale cheeks flushing slowly, even in the dark. There’s a tiny hiccup in his heartbeat that means trouble.

“Do you wanna make out?” Stiles whispers, swallowing spit and creating static in the blanket where he shifts his knees. 

“Will it put you to sleep?” 

Stiles’ brow wrinkles while he inches closer, see-sawing his hips and shoulders closer under the blanket until Peter can feel his knees pressed against him. “Sure,” he mumbles. The corners of his mouth turn up with mischief. “I’m positive kissing you will put me right to sleep, yeah. Sounds right.” 

Peter’s nose wrinkles with affront and then he props up on an elbow to loom over Stiles, lip curled away from his teeth. “Listen brat-“

In the same breath Stiles’ pushes a hand out of the blanket and cups it around Peter’s raised jaw, using his own elbow to slide himself under the curve of Peter’s chest. He props up enough to press his lips just beside Peter’s. Catching the corner of his mouth with barely-there pressure, Stiles mumbles, “C’mon, kiss me.”

It’s so late. Peter’s tired and envious of youth and its ability to bounce a person back to the waking world with just a little hormonal inspiration. Stiles was drooling on the sofa not twenty minutes prior and now he’s… nuzzling. 

“Fine,” Peter sighs with exasperation to hide interest as he reaches to grasp Stiles’ wrist. His pulse is easy to feel when Peter drags his thumb against it. It speeds, heavy and eager. Hard to resist. 

Stiles settles insistently into the small cradle of space beside Peter’s supporting elbow, his knees bending to create a mountain under the blanket. His eyes close and he tilts his chin up higher. 

Peter leans over to slide his hand down Stiles’ arm, cradling his elbow briefly before continuing across his chest, stroking over belly to far hip, finally resting on outer thigh. Even through the layers of blanket the way he squeezes has Stiles’ hitching a breath and exhaling a whine. 

They’re both minty when Peter turns his head and catches Stiles’ parted lips with his own. Stiles’ breath stutters out against his mouth and his eyes widen. Peter closes his to avoid the cross-eyed wonder. 

“Right to sleep,” Peter purrs, sliding his hand up from hip to cradle the back of Stiles’ raised neck. Thumb pressing firmly into muscle before it traces, gently, very gently, across his throat so he can guide Stiles back to relax against the bed. 

“Fuck off,” Stiles complains, but he’s smiling, eyes crinkled as he reaches a greedy hand up higher into Peter’s hair and tries to tug him down. 

“Mixed signals,” Peter tuts. 

“You are the actual worst,” Stiles continues, trying to arch himself back up for another kiss. He’s stopped by the pressure of Peter’s thumb across his throat. A short sucking gasp leaves his parted lips before he narrows his eyes. His fingers slowly loosen out of Peter’s hair to pet it gently instead. 

Peter tilts down, laying his bent forearm against Stiles’ chest with just the weight of gravity to keep him in place as he kisses the corner of his mouth. Dragging lightly over to the high point of his cheek. He pecks him on the nose and Stiles scowls up at him. 

“Please?” Stiles doesn’t sound particularly polite, his expression and tone a matching level of begrudging. 

“Please what?”

“Oh my fucking God, Peter.” Stiles squirms, trying to push at Peter’s nearby face with his hand as he twists away. 

Peter bites the side of his palm just hard enough to catch and taps his thumb down against Stiles’ throat twice. Stiles is flushed, smells of arousal, his heartbeat is speeding and his hips twitch up against the bed but he’s still scowling. 

“Let go,” Stiles complains. 

There’s a slight flex of muscle between his teeth before he releases Stiles’ hand completely and rolls flat to his back again. Peter shifts one knee up and it stretches the blanket out from Stiles’ bent legs. The air feels cold as it swishes over his bare chest, the heat that had raidated between them escaping into the room. 

“Wait, I didn’t mean like -” Stiles appears over him, braced and hovering and frowning with an adorable little wrinkle to his mouth. “Is this about the please? You’re really going to make me ask to be kissed like I’m Tiny Tim looking in the shop window?” 

Peter raises a brow and feels Stiles’ sigh against his face in response. 

“You know, like - Please sir, may I have some-”

“Those are two different books,” Peter interrupts. “Tiny Tim-”

“Listen asshole, I don’t need a classic lit lesson.” Stiles pushes at his chest, shaking him with one hand planted on his sternum as he leans over better. “Just make out with me, you want to, right? Don’t you want to?” 

The note of sudden insecurity and the pause of Stiles’ insistent shoving makes Peter sigh and sit up slowly. He reaches out and takes Stiles’ hand off his chest and thumbs at his pulse again. Still hammering away. 

“Yes,” he squeezes Stiles’ wrist and inclines his head a bit when he catches big brown eyes with his own. “But if you’re going to be a brat that makes requests at godawful hours -”

“I’m not a brat.”

Peter arches a brow and his mouth pulls to the side faintly before Stiles makes a face and lifts an admitting hand to see-saw between them. He smells guilty and pleased. His blush deepens while he ducks his gaze. 

“If you’re going to be a brat that makes requests at godawful hours, you can at least be polite,” Peter finishes as he relaxes his grip on Stiles’ wrist and startles a little when the hand flips and fingers thread between his own to squeeze roughly. Stiles’ knuckles are bony but his hand is bigger and less delicate than Peter’s imagined. Not so fragile in his own. 

Stiles groans, low and loud. Peter quirks a reflexive smile. 

“Please kiss me. A lot. All over this stupid big bed in your stupid soft sheets,” Stiles huffs at him but it’s just genuine enough to be passable. 

Peter leans forward and rubs his stubble into Stiles’ exposed throat. Cheek pressing against a broad shoulder before he catches his teeth on a protruding clavicle as Stiles whines in his ear. Peter lifts their held hands and drops Stiles’ grip over his shoulder so he can wrap that hand around his waist and slowly tip him back into bed. 

“Fuck,” Stiles grunts when he twitches against the mark Peter sucks into his shoulder. He latches his hand on Peter’s nape, fingertips digging in and slipping slightly as he arches his back, hips flexing and his other hand coming up to grip one of the pillows beside his head. “Please, yeah.” 

“Alright, sweetheart” Peter murmurs as he slides over, shoving away sheet and blanket to swing his knee so he’s comfortably straddled over Stiles’ body and can press him down. Hip to hip. 

Stiles is hard, his exposed boxers are damp just below the waist band. The salt of precome is obvious now that he’s not so covered. 

“I’m flattered.” Peter smirks as he grinds his hips forward in a hitch that has the wet spot in Stiles’ boxers grinding against his belly. 

“Shut up,” Stiles grimaces, looking away as his hips twitch and press down into the bed to escape the pressure. Or maybe the attention. 

“I mean it,” Peter says gently while he slides his stubble up Stiles’ throat to catch his mouth again. 

The bed shifts as Stiles’ elbow digs down into the mattress and he strains to press up a little harder. He makes a low noise, desperate as he flexes his fingers against Peter’s back and tries to suck on the tongue Peter teases into his mouth. 

It’s so much gentler than the last time Peter was touched, he hadn’t wanted to be handled carefully at that bar and really, he doesn’t think Stiles did either. But here, in bed, they’re both leaning in to soft fingers. 

“Hey, please,” Stiles mumbles against his mouth with a wet breath as he arches his hips up and they grind into Peter’s abs. He whimpers, skin so warm Peter can smell the heat coming off of him. 

The room air against his back is almost unpleasantly cold. Peter shifts himself down, stretches his knees out wider, plants himself further back, ass on Stiles’ thighs as he sits up and looks down at him. Pinned and panting. 

“Is this what you want, sweetheart?” Peter asks, slowly grinding his hips forward. His own cock is straining now, bulging out his joggers. It almost aches as he presses against Stiles’ body. 

“Yeah,” Stiles’ brow pinches and his chin tilts back on a soft noise. His hands slip and catch, holding either of Peter’s forearms and squeezing sharply. “Whatever you want, whatever. Just - more.” 

Peter pauses, hip nudged up hard enough he can feel the way Stiles’ dick twitches before he smells the fresh puddle of precome staining his shorts. “Alright, kitten.” He watches Stiles’ eyes flicker wider before they narrow on the name and his lips part. 

There’s very little coordination that Stiles can offer, so Peter is the one to slip down and tug off his boxers. Giving Stiles’ thighs soothing squeezes when he’s naked and waiting for Peter. He’s got a nice cock, it’s curved a little, the tip resting unimpeded a few inches off course of his navel. 

“Peter,” Stiles complains, hips shifting and his hands trying to catch at the wolf. He manages a handful of hair and shoulder before his fingers ease and fall away to rest on his own belly, fidgeting like he wants to touch himself. 

“Just a moment,” Peter says, smirking as he has to slide completely over to get his pants off. He lets them drop to the floor before he’s back to straddling Stiles’ thighs and looking down at his narrower hips and thinner belly. Another twitch and an attempt to buck Peter into motion has him raising a brow but he obliges. Sort of. 

Stiles goes cross eyed trying to follow his hand as it comes up to his face. “Huh?” he grunts as Peter traces three fingers under his lip. 

“Spit.”

The blush on Stiles’ face brightens and rushes down his throat to bloom across his chest. He attempts to sit up but Peter tsks at him and lightly settles his forearm flat between his nipples. 

“Peter,” Stiles looks up at him, swallowing and then tilting his chin down to glance at Peter’s wrist. He huffs warm breath across Peter’s hand. “You’re really hot and annoying.” 

“You can say no, Stiles,” Peter tells him, soft and patient as he stretches his middle finger so it traces against lower lip. Plucking it down a little bit. 

“I know,” he defends, face scrunching as he looks away. His heartbeat stutters. “I just…”

Peter takes his hand away, brushing his palm soothingly down Stiles’ chest, patting him just below the hollow of his rib cage. “Perhaps another time,” he offers, and his weight shifts up to lean over to the side table. 

“Wait,” Stiles’ hand lurches out and grabs Peter’s bicep. Hard. “Don’t make me sneak off to awkwardly jerk it in the bathroom. Please. That would be even more embarrassing than letting you make me drool on myself.” 

“I have lube in the nightstand,” Peter deadpans. Slightly caught off guard. “If you’d like a vanilla handjob… I have lube in the nightstand.” 

“Oh.”

Peter snorts, reaching further to pull the nightstand drawer open and grab for little bottle. He brings it with him and tucks it under his bicep to warm up. “We can pretend you don’t desperately want to be told what to do, that’s fine.” 

Stiles makes a face at him and rolls his eyes but his lip gets caught between his teeth and he chews on it harshly. “So if we… uh, So if I do want to do that. Maybe. You’d be like the other night, right?” 

Peter raises a brow and makes a questioning noise. 

“Nice. You know? You were really nice - to me. So if we fuck around right now you’re not going to be a dick and kick me out or be weird or make me sleep in the guest room. Right?” 

“Ah,” Peter tilts his head back to look at the ceiling for a moment while Stiles squirms underneath him. “If we fuck around,” his mouth quirks as he copies the wording, “I’ll take care of you.” 

A big gusty breath reaches Peter’s face, still minty, and the disturbed air brings up the anxiety and lust in Stiles’ scent. “Okay,” he says, almost choking on the agreement as he reaches up and clamps his hand on Peter’s wrist. “Okay, then I guess. Just... Yeah.” 

Peter doesn’t think Stiles can handle trying to explain any further so he nods, and leans down to kiss his forehead. It’s too affectionate, but it feels right. “Alright, sweetheart.” 

“Stop lights?” Stiles mumbles, his lips are trembling a little and his fingers are digging in. 

“That’s fine,” Peter says and offers another kiss, this time on the mouth. He lingers, coaxing Stiles back to the desperation of a few moments ago with tongue and a few well placed rolls of his hips. 

The slide of skin on skin this time is warmer, harsher, sweat gathers between them. 

“Peter,” Stiles groans, neck arching at a particularly well placed grind. His hands have migrated to Peter’s shoulders and he squeezes before he’s forced to let go as Peter sits back up. 

“There we are.” Peter coos as he looks down at Stiles. His pupils are so blown out, his face so warm and his temples damp with sweat. “Spit,” he repeats and this time Stiles whimpers. 

Laying flat on his back, unable to lift his neck more than an inch before Peter reaches down with his other hand to place light restrictive fingers on the base of his throat, Stiles looks up at him with parted lips. “Peter,” he complains, but his hips twitch up and the redness in his chest deepens by the second. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” Peter encourages, helpfully slipping the tips of three of his fingers into Stiles’ open mouth. He doesn’t push past the edge of his teeth, and Stiles is fast to suck on them. The pressure is surprisingly tight when Peter attempts to retract. 

Stiles makes a low noise, something like very turned on distress as Peter drags his wet fingertips down his chin. He only needs a few encouraging noises before he lifts his tongue and a small pool of saliva streams over his lower lip and out the corner of his mouth. He groans about it, and Peter takes just enough pity for the humiliation he can smell to catch the puddle before it tracks further down his face. 

Even if he wants to watch it drip down to his throat, wants to watch Stiles make a mess of himself. 

“Good, not so bad, hm? Peter croons as he bends down to kiss his forehead again. It seems appropriate, and Stiles responds with a sigh that sounds like he’s relaxing into himself. 

The gathered spit cools quickly, but it isn’t cold when he reaches down to wrap his hand around Stiles’ cock and give it a wet stroke. There’s enough slick for a few messy pumps that mingle with precome before he brings his hand back up. Fingertips tracing the corner of Stiles’ mouth before he’s obliged. 

Stiles is whining and breathing hard by the time Peter’s got a wet enough grip to hold them both and jack them with efficiency Stiles doesn’t seem to be able to handle. He’s keening loudly, hands up and almost clawing down Peter’s chest in a blind attempt to hold on. 

“Peter, fuck,” Stiles curses as he blinks up, his expression glossy and his chest heaving. 

It would be interesting, to hold back, to take his hand and give Stiles’ balls a little denying tug but he doesn’t. That’s not the game tonight. Instead, he leans down and mouths at Stiles’ throat. “Come, on sweetheart. You’ve been so good. You’re so beautiful.” 

A low whine and a soft choked gurgle and then Peter’s hand is much warmer and wetter, Stiles’ grinding up into their grips. His noises climbing up with oversensitivity is what tips Peter over too. Until he’s got a handful of mess and his own back is heaving with his breaths. 

He unlatches his teeth from where he’d lightly planted them in Stiles’ throat. “Easy,” he coaxes, because Stiles is clinging to him with nails in his forearm now as if he’s unable to unwind the bow string tightness of his back. He’s arched so high and pretty. 

Stiles shudders and goes limp when Peter pats his dry hand in the center of his chest. 

“Fuck,” Stiles repeats, eyes closed, mouth set to a loose dopey angle. “Best handjob ever.” He finally takes his nails out of Peter’s skin to flash him a thumbs up. 

Peter is tempted to dump the slimy mess of cum and spit in his hand on him for it.  
  
“I’ve had practice,” Peter says instead, with a drawl and a smirk that has Stiles busting into laughter and squinting up at him. “Let me clean up.”

There’s no separation anxiety in Stiles’ sated demeanor as Peter climbs out of bed and grabs for a tissue. Cleaning his hand and then Stiles’ belly, which has him swatting and giggling, before he goes to the bathroom. He comes back with a glass of water and a wet cloth. 

Stiles sips, when prompted, sitting against the headboard with a sleepy expression while Peter wipes the cum out of the hair on his belly before it dries down against him. 

“Thanks,” Stiles mutters and sets the glass on the side table before he gives Peter a bleary look and reaches out to pat the side of his cheek. 

Having never been patted before, Peter pauses a moment before he hums and leans over to give Stiles a firm goodnight kiss to the temple. There’s some clumsy limbs, but after a moment of precarious wiggling, Peter’s managed to drag Stiles down the bed to lay with him again. He curves around Stiles’ back and breathes in against the nape of his neck. 

“Alright?” Peter asks, and listens to a sleepy hum of affirmation before Stiles passes out in his arms. 

The snoring is almost nice to fall asleep to. 

\---

In the morning, Stiles dresses with a borrowed pair of extra socks that Peter throws at his head. They’re wool, and Stiles complains that they’re going to be itchy until he puts them on and marvels at how quickly his toes warm. 

“I have to work,” Peter says, dressed in half a suit as Stiles drinks a glass of juice in the middle of his kitchen. 

Stiles nods, chugging so quickly that a small drip of bright red juice slips down his chin. He wipes it with the heel of his hand. “Do you have a cast iron pan?”

The strangeness of the request has Peter turning from where he’s finishing with his buttons. “Of course,” he raises a brow and points to the cupboard behind Stiles. 

“Cool - can I borrow it?” 

Peter stares for a moment before he nods and decides he doesn’t care to ask why. It likely wouldn’t make sense anyway. He moves to get his shoes on and layer on his coat. Poking through the closet for the pair of gloves he’d purchase for Stiles. He rips off the tag and puts it in his pocket before he walks over to drop them on top of Stiles’ repaired jacket with a pair of ear muffs. 

The pan clanks a little, and Stiles curses but then he manages to carry the thing with him to the table where he pauses and looks at the winter gear. “These look new,” he says as he trades the pan for the gloves on the table and inspects them. 

“Keep them - you’re likely to lose a finger if you keep wearing those thin ones.” Peter aims for dismissive but he catches the way Stiles’ mouth quirks, the way his scent smooths with something like affection. 

Alarms ring in Peter’s mind, something about closeness, and boundaries and the dangers of human relationships. 

“Thank you,” Stiles says, quiet as he puts on his coat, puts on the ear muffs, does his zipper and then shoves his hands carefully into his new gloves. “They’re soft.”

“Hurry up.” Peter finishes getting his own winter gear on and grabs his keys with an impatient gesture to the front door. He’d considered offering Stiles a ride but he finds that he can’t. He can’t make himself commit to favours as well. “Here.”

Stiles takes the cash for the cab and nods, hoisting the cast iron pan against his front and following Peter into the elevator. They part ways as the elevator stops for the lobby. 

Peter keeps his eyes on his phone, doesn’t look up for the wave goodbye, and curses himself for tilting reflexively into the kiss Stiles plants on his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: There's sex in this chapter. The under-negotiated kink is that Peter's bossy and he doesn't talk about it first. They sort of pause and then do and establish safewords but Peter asks Stiles to do something he finds embarrassing without really discussing it at all first. BUT Peter's really clear about accepting no and offering a non-kiny alternative and he backs off when thinks Stiles expresses any desire for him to. It works out - happy endings don't worry. 
> 
> Also >>; I have been procrastinating posting anything like this for actual months. My nerves, y'all. I'm too delicate. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and I'd love to hear from you. 
> 
> double p.s the republican joke is something i read somewhere at some point at some time. Felt like Stiles. Please Don't @ me I'm Canadian.


End file.
